An Alluring Water Feature
Let the waters swarm with a swarm of living creatures. – Genesis 1:20
Not long ago, David Rothenberg and I visited the most secret of all secret ponds. It lies next to a quiet road in the countryside. Despite its waters being in plain sight, elusive sounds find cover there. We arrived in mid-afternoon and parked the car on the grass.
It was early January in a winter without snow. A thin cowl of ice had formed, partially sealing the water’s surface. A black-capped chickadee chattered amid the brambles. Nailed to a tamarack was a weather-beaten board. Once upon a time it may have been a sign, but now it was only a cipher. We wondered who owned this place. Did we need permission to enter? From where we stood, the most secret of secret ponds looked like an unkempt public park. So we proceeded to the water’s edge and stood there like a couple of kids on the porch of a haunted house, pondering our next move.
David dropped his pack and brought out his recording tackle—an Aquabeat microphone and a JBL Flip speaker, each tethered by wire to a Sony recorder. This was not his first musical foray into unlikely waters. Over the years he has played and recorded music with birds, whales, and periodical cicadas. Lately his attention has been focused on creatures who dwell in the depths of humble ponds like this one.
He cast his line into an opening in the ice. I took a few pictures. Time passed. The chickadee went quiet. All was still—until the cylindrical speaker, lying in the grass, began to emit an eerie gurgling. David said that was the sound of water passing through the pond’s overflow culvert. It resonated like far-off breakers on a lonesome coast. David tinkered with the dials on the recorder, eliminating unwanted feedback and tuning in to the true goings-on below the pond’s surface. For a while, the only sound was the pond’s death-rattle in the culvert. That would have been enough for me, but David continued with his sonic ministrations. Slowly then, a series of otherworldly clicks, taps, whistles and moans could be heard emanating from the cylinder. A sub-lacustrine cacophony gave way to the lily-voiced vocables of the resident naiads. We drew closer to hear their gentle gossip. Mystery must always be met halfway. We were almost there when our whispery host fell silent.
A rusty pickup had roared to a stop on the road. A window rolled down and an angry voice bellowed at us: “You don’t belong there! Can’t you read? Now get off my property!” The window rolled back up and the truck roared off.
Anticipating the next vehicle might be the cops, we gathered up our gear and hurried back toward the car, taking one last look at the weather-beaten board on the tree. It was still blank, but at last we understood. We got into the car and drove off, leaving that most secret of secret ponds for another time.
Some people are fishers of trout, others are fishers of souls. Every once in a while, along comes a fisher of sounds such as my friend. The ancients knew that the voices of the dead correspond to the buzzing of bees. Thanks to the ingenious angling of David Rothenberg, we too know otherwise.
©John P. O’Grady
